


Trying to Describe the Kingdom

by angelfeast (miscellanium)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Canonical Character Death, Community: deancasbigbang, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellanium/pseuds/angelfeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NEEDS EXTENSIVE REVISION.</p><p>In the year 1944, after their father dies, Dean and Sam are left with the remains of his infantry team deep among the forests and rivers of France where it can be hard to find a way out. Supplies are running low, Axis forces are pressing in all around, and there's a plane following them.</p><p>The question of whether the pilot is friend or foe is answered when he crashes, saving Dean from an ambush, and now Dean has a choice to make. He can help Castiel and his brother get back to Switzerland, or he can press on with his father's covert mission, worries about Sam's loyalty aside—or he can go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying to Describe the Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> more detailed warnings: some war-related gore and general violence; character deaths (non-major, off-screen, canon); mentions of being taken as a prisoner of war; mild homophobia (non-pairing)
> 
> thanks to jayfray18, sailetheach, aplethora, and psi-neko. thanks also to pikku-liisa for her amazing art.
> 
> translations, where necessary, are provided by hovering over the text.

Yes, in every war story there is a screaming that comes across the sky but this one starts more quietly, with the same sad hum that rises behind the trees every morning to wake Sgt. Dean Winchester just before dawn. It's a long low grind, like the sun's gears are whining, breaking down as it tries to push itself up over the horizon.

Or that's what Dean's younger brother Sam would say, the sap, if he weren't somehow managing to sleep through this din. The hollow they're in helps to muffle sounds beyond the snoring of their comrades a few feet away, but still. Their makeshift camp is in a small dip near the base of the Vosges, the distant mountains ringing the forest-lined valley and scooping the soldiers into a little bowl of nature perfect for burying bodies.

The buzz spikes into a mournful growl and Dean looks up in time to see a black shape cresting the treetops, gunfire and exhaust trailing behind. It's not German—Dean can tell from the sound of the engine—but before he can pin it down the plane skims overhead too fast and disappears again, like it has every other day this week.

Then it's daylight, thin but there on their faces, and Pvt. Andy Gallagher is coming around to get everybody up so he can finish his shift and try to sleep. Even though Dean's wide awake now he stays in his sleeping bag—thin fabric lumped over pebbles and rough grass—and rolls over and closes his eyes. Daytime means he and Sam have to talk, and his brother isn't going to like what he has to say.

"You jerk, you're totally awake." Andy laughs, kicks him in the legs, and Dean gets up.

Getting ready for the day is no big affair, far from shore and cut off from the chain of command. There's not much talking, just huddling in a circle as they pass around the toothpaste and wet washcloths. Sam's hair is getting long, down to his eyes almost, because he's the only one who doesn't bother to take Spc. Bobby Singer up on his occasional offers of a rough haircut; the others, they say yes because they don't have much else to hang onto.

It's Pfc. Chuck Shurley who lets Dean go first today; the NCO has to keep up appearances, after all, and the little man's already got a beard that'll take a long time to shave away. So Dean's sitting on the ground, eyes closed and Bobby's field knife scratching at the nape of his neck, when there's a thud somewhere to his right and a yelp that can only be Sam.

"Sorry, I didn't—"

"See me there?" Sam sounds excited, gleeful almost, and Chuck's silence gives Dean the push he needs.

"Hey, Sammy, come over here, will you?"

Bobby taps Dean on the shoulder, lets him go after a quick swipe at the last few loose bristles of hair, and he stands to try and see Sam eye to eye. Of course he can't, hasn't been able to since high school, but he's sure as shit gonna try.

"I thought I told you to stop calling me that," comes the answer, but Sam lopes over anyway, olive drab and long limbs everywhere like an animal trying to learn how to camouflage itself but not quite managing it.

"You still on that special recon kick?" The words come out more sharply than intended; Dean can see it in the way Sam's half-smile twists before shutting down.

"Dad would have said yes if he would have just—"

"First, he was going insane so he couldn't have said yes to anything, and second, it's Sir to you." Dean barks this out, switching into command mode because it's the most effective rebuttal he knows.

Sam scowls, fists clenching, but everybody's watching them now so he just turns and walks away, tense shoulders a promise of fights to come. It's a look that's more familiar than Dean would like, but he shoves the bitter taste down because he's not going to follow Sam, not going to hold on when he shouldn't, not going to end up standing in a field with arms outstretched screaming about a plane painted with yellow eyes, yellow yellow yellow until the Germans shoot him down.

So he stays where he is, tries to think of a plan for the day as the sun starts to leave the trees. They're not quite lost; give any of them a map of the area and they could circle the fifty-mile range where they must be, but even with Dean doing his best to run things it's more that they're not sure what to do as their K rations weren't meant to last this long and Chuck's SCR-536 walkie-talkie stays silent.

On August 16, 1944, John Winchester broke and led them deep into France, far from the original invasion, far from Draguignan with _Alios nutrio, meos devoro_ carved into every stone, and somewhere during the scrabbling slide from war to war they lost the chance to turn back.

It must be almost a month later now, thinks Dean, judging by how long Sam's hair has grown. He chuckles at his own weak joke before waving at Bobby, over by the beat-up truck brought with them from the beaches of Cavalaire.

The old man finishes rolling up his kit and packing it all together with a tidiness and speed that speaks to his years of combat, yet takes his time walking over to where Dean's standing in the center of the hollow.

"What do you think?" Dean surveys the remnants of Lt. Winchester's proud squad, packing up with no destination in mind. All they've been doing thus far has been trying to find their way out of Axis territory, but as the Germans and Italians flee their holdings it's become harder and harder to tell where the boundaries are meant to be.

Bobby gives him a sidelong look, pushes his cap up his forehead. "Didn't hear much of anything yesterday. Are you really thinking about going on in the same direction? Because I can't say I think that's the best idea."

"But if there's been no fighting—" Dean cuts himself off, remembering the dark hum that comes every morning.

"Why aren't we going south? Back to the shore? There's gotta still be Americans there, or Allies at least."

Andy's awake now, the light having spread across the grass and forced him back up; he and Chuck are over by the clearing's edge, watching the unofficial conference as they have one of their own and share the remains of Andy's whiskey flask. Sam's nowhere to be seen.

"I just have this feeling." Bobby doesn't need him to add anything else; he hears the worrying love in Dean's voice anyway, has spent enough time with him to see it in every line of the man. The brothers have always been close, and neither of them wants to let the other spin out. They saw what happened to their father; the potential's there, it's just a matter of time—

Then Sam's back, but Chuck, turning to greet him, sees something move behind him—

"Kraut!"

Sam opens his mouth but Andy's tackled him to the ground, onto Dean to try and protect them both, and as Chuck and Andy roll into formation Bobby has his Browning ready and aimed in the direction from which Sam came. Dean's still pinned under Sam, M1 carbine trapped by several pounds of fraternal Winchester.

Before Dean can ask what's going on, out of the woods steps a man wearing the sharp silver and black of the _Schutzstaffel_.

There's two more clicks, three rifles chambered, but the man raises his hands and they're empty.

"You'd fire on an unarmed person? Really now." His voice has had its German edges smoothed away, leaving a vaguely Continental polish on the vowels.

Dean sighs. "At ease, guys. I know him; he and Sir used to talk." He gets up at the same time Sam does. "Would our resident spy like to explain?"

Sam shoots him a dirty look, but goes ahead anyway. "Everybody, meet Crowley. Crowley, meet everybody. He's..."

"In sales." Crowley offers a truncated bow. He's just a bit taller than Chuck, but there's something in the way he stands that makes even Sam feel the need to prove himself. "I give you information, maybe a little more, and if you're out of money, well. I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

The almost-warm coil of Crowley's voice, meant to charm, puts Bobby on edge. He's met too many agents—double, triple, friend or wife; the number and gender never makes a difference—to trust any of them. Letting his fingers slide back down to his Browning's trigger guard, he watches for an indication of something familiar. Crowley just raises an eyebrow, dismisses him.

"Let's go talk somewhere where we won't be interrupted, yeah?"

Dean gestures for Sam to take Crowley on ahead. "Shurley, why don't you get out the map, and you all look for good routes away from here—try northward. We'll be right back."

There's not much grumbling; the group's used to the Winchester way of deciding, for better or worse, and Dean has yet to go wrong.

Dean catches up with the two just inside the woods, interrupting a conversation about espionage techniques—or so he assumes, because Sam clams up as soon as he comes into view. There's a brief silence, then Crowley's saying "Shame about your father," and Sam and Dean don't even have to look at each other to know that this is something they agree on.

"Get to the point." Their voices overlap.

"Tricks like that aren't going to disabuse me of the notion that there's just the one brain between the pair of you, you know." Crowley says this with a smirk, pulling off his peaked cap and looking it over with calculated disinterest. "How's it hanging? Got a few dirty magazines on offer if the answer's 'not well.' Some are in the Greek tradition—if you get my drift." He licks his lips to drive the point home, chuckling when Sam makes a face of disgust.

"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm engaged?"

Crowley shrugs, shifts smoothly from patter to the crux of his business as he motions at the trunk of his black _Kommandeurwagen_. "Got twenty liters of petrol for that death trap of yours, and as many _eiserne Portionen_ as was safe. A good part of this country is still occupied and we're holding you steady back in Hürtgenwald, so it'd be best if you headed east as soon as possible. That is, if you're still planning on following through with the Lichtträger plan."

"Nick." Dean spits. "He still around?"

"That's _Verwalter_ Lichtträger to you Yanks, and yes, despite John—"

Dean steps forward, gets just inside Crowley's space, and the German shuts up. Sam puts a hand on Dean's arm, drains away some of the punching tension.

"If that's all, I've got a letter."

"I'm not your fucking Pony Express," snaps Crowley, but he takes the envelope Sam's holding out and slides it into a breast pocket. "In about five days' time—you going east?" Dean hesitates, nods. "Good. By no means go north; we've got the Swiss scared enough to eat out of our palm. Anyway, once you feel you've gone far enough, just stop moving for a bit and I'll find you. Or maybe you can train this one to find me, yeah?" His grin is impish, only the effect is undercut by his high-ranking NSDAP uniform and Dean doesn't feel like laughing.

After a short while, Sam clears his throat. "Right, let's get that gas." It's an awkward segue but works nonetheless; Dean and Crowley glance at him then back at each other, calling a silent truce.

With the food and _Wehrmachtkanister_ handed over, Crowley slides back behind the wheel, touches a finger to his cap brim in an insouciant salute and revs the engine, singing as he drives off the way he came. " _Frick, Joseph Goebbels, Schirach, Himmler und Genossen, die hungern auch doch nur im Gieste mit._"

\---

Andy and Bobby are kneeling near the truck, map spread out on the ground while Chuck paces and hogs the cigarette they're trying to share. "Looks like there's really only one good way to go," Andy's saying, then Dean sets the canister of gas down behind him, steel thudding loudly, and he jumps to his feet.

"At ease, Private." They grin at each other; both the action and reaction have long become unnecessary, but there's no undoing some habits.

As Sam goes to refill the gas tank, Dean drops down to peer at the map. "I'm thinking east. How does that look?"

"Well, I was just saying that's—give!" Andy grabs the cigarette out of Chuck's mouth, takes a quick smoke. "That seems to be the best way, really. Otherwise we get surrounded quicker than I wanna think about."

Dean frowns. Crowley had recommended east, sure, but this just makes it seem like they're being herded. As if on cue a humming starts, spreads across the sky until they're all looking up.

It takes him a few seconds to recognize the sound, coming at the wrong time of day, but when the plane skims over their head Dean curses. With their backs to the sun they can see everything, like the squared-off Swiss flags against the steel green, easy enough to identify but there's chalking along the undercarriage, circles with crosses running through them and sharply curving lines striping up beneath the wings—

"What is that, some voodoo shit?" Dean hollers over the engine's roar, pointing upwards, and Sam cranes his neck as the plane comes around again. Dean's smart, but he'll pick something and dig himself in; Sam's always been the more free-ranging one, so it's no surprise when his eyes spark with recognition.

"Alchemical symbols," and the fascinated interest in his voice is so thinly disguised Dean can't help but snort.

"Nerd," says Dean with mock disgust, hitting him in the shoulder as they all turn to watch the plane make another pass. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it veers off and disappears once more behind the trees.

"That's new. Before it's only come in the morning."

Chuck looks at him in concern. "You've seen it before?"

"I think so. Same sound, at least." Dean's still trying to see where in the east the plane could have been headed, even going so far as to raise himself up on his tiptoes for all the good that'll do. "But it's always been quick, stayed away." The curiosity slides off his face. "I don't like this."

"Well, I could go find out what's going on." Sam's tone is casual, but the brothers have never been good at hiding things from each other for very long so Dean turns away, takes a deep breath before trusting himself to speak.

"Let's move."

And so they drive, the truck thumping over branches and filled-in trenches that rattle its passengers. The mountains curve around them, still draped in snow despite an August that boiled the bodies left in Falaise, blue crevasses giving way to once-green plateaus. But ahead there's only the trees growing closer together, until even Andy can't maneuver through and they're reduced to a rolling crawl. It's only a few hours past midday, but it feels like it's been night for many miles by the time they finally decide to stop and stretch.

"Where are we?" asks Chuck, digging around in the glove compartment for the map as Bobby and Sam head off in different directions to relieve themselves. Dean looks over his shoulder, puts a finger in one of the creases.

"Round about here, I'd say. On average we've been doing, what, twenty?"

Andy sticks his head into the discussion and nods. "We're almost out of gas again." He's got one of the bags of German rations open; the tinned fish is met with skepticism so he gets to work on the hard biscuits, the first loud crunch startling in the hush of the forest.

"We should have stopped earlier," Chuck says as he scowls at Andy. "That shit's like gold."

Shrugging, Dean takes the map from him, folds it into a fan. "We're calling it quits for the day anyway." Even in these shadows the air is hot and clammy, the worn-thin paper doesn't hold its shape well, and soon he just gives up and tucks it into the waistband of his pants. "I'll go check ahead, make sure there's nothing to clean up."

"How about I go with you?" Sam's back, Bobby close behind, and beneath the dirt on his face is an expression that could almost be called hopeful.

"What if I bite it? Gotta have another Winchester to take over; military's all about tradition, you know," says Dean, his grin light and his eyes flat.

Sam looks at him, mouth pressed thin, but doesn't say anything in front of the others.

"Here's the walkie-talkie," Chuck says. "If you're not back in—"

"Give me an hour."

"If you're not back by then, we'll send...whose turn is it?"

Bobby steps forward. "Mine. So if you don't keep your ass in one piece, I'm gonna give you hell."

The men chuckle at the morbid joke because what else is there to say? Dean tugs his hat down, returns the group salute, and walks away into the woods.

\---

The underbrush here in the far reaches of France is not that different from the brambles of Kansas or the craggy fields of the Soviet steppes, but Dean isn't going to let himself be taken away again without putting up a fight, and he's gone over about half of his planned radius when there's a small clearing ahead not marked on any map.

He freezes at the edge, hand going for the handle of his M1 as he scans for movement, and just as he starts to bring the gun around the ground explodes in front of him.

There's gunfire coming from all around, and with a mouth full of dirt he scrambles behind a chunk of upturned topsoil. The radio's lying a few feet away, knocked off by the first attack, so Dean starts swearing and doesn't give a shit if the enemy can hear him. His options are few and he runs through them in his mind alarmingly quickly. Just as he decides to hell with it, this is the way soldiers are meant to die, a shadow covers him, blocks out the sun and rocks Dean flat as it bombs the trenches, shoots up the ones hidden to him and open to the sky.

It's the Swiss plane, that same one he's been seeing for a week, but right now he doesn't care if it's a goddamn spaceship from Mars as long as it's on his side. Dean whoops at each staccato burst, waves his hat into the wind that comes every time the plane makes another run. After just a short while the guns behind the trees are silent, some lying mangled beyond the bushes, and Dean finds it too easy to look away from the fingers still holding on.

Now the plane's making a farewell pass, the pilot raises his hand and the undercarriage bursts out in orange and black and that wasn't supposed to happen—

The rear gunner's swinging around and Dean can hear him screaming, can hear the sobbing curses as he tears up the ground with bullets until there's a shout, a string of German abruptly cut off—

Then there's a snapping, a crunching, and the plane's steel nose wrinkles inward like paper as it drags along the field. Dean stands there as the giant thing folds up, metal whining into the silence as it shears away, but there's no time to feel as though time's standing still or anything because it's not, the rear gunner's pulling himself out of his bucket seat and running towards him.

The language isn't the French or German Dean expected; it's a choppy one, consonants and vowels all tangled up, but he gets the message clear enough so he doesn't wait for the man to yank on his arms, just sprints to the open cockpit and starts hauling the pilot out. The gunner stammers out a few grateful-sounding words then drops to his knees and starts vomiting, concussion catching up with him.

Dean's got his arms around the pilot's chest; the unconscious man's surprisingly light and comes free after just two tries. It's at the clearing's edge, where he came in, that Dean has to stop, pull off the man's flight mask and let him slide facedown onto the grass. After a moment or so to breathe, remind himself that yes, he's alive, he turns the pilot over.

This isn't the time to really think about anything that isn't safe, but the man's got a striking face; wedge-shaped, almost, with sharp cheekbones under a half-day's worth of stubble, then his eyes are open and the blue is shocking in the dusk. But somehow Dean feels like he's seen this before—

Because he has, he realizes when the rear gunner walks over with the same mouth and eyes.

\---

It's past midnight when Dean finally gets back to his fireteam, even though he'd tried radioing ahead that he'd picked up some wounded and could they get the truck out here, please? But the downside of deciding that one map was enough when it was time to lighten everybody's loads meant that if Dean could find his way back, nobody was going to risk losing the truck to another ambush.

So he'd tried to explain to the twin airmen that there was nothing to be afraid of, but the pilot just put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light push as if to say _I have faith in you_.

Then he opened his mouth. "Shut up."

"Excuse me?" Something about the man's demeanor and deep voice made the words hard for Dean to process, like a priest had just cursed at him.

"Let us get moving. We are not badly hurt," the pilot's saying, abrupt and no-nonsense and if he's going to be like this then Dean really needs to learn his name.

"Okay, okay." Dean starts picking his way through the trees, sidearm ready this time, and over the crunch of branches says, "I'm Sergeant Dean Winchester, by the way. So what's your name and rank?"

There's a silence and for a split second he's alone and afraid. Then close behind, almost too close, comes the pilot's voice. "I am _Kapitán_ Castiel, and this is my—"

"Brother," the other man says like he knows Castiel's going to try and hide something. "I'm his brother, _Vojín_ Jakub Novák."

Dean glances back, briefly, but all he can see is flashes of grey tunic, a white hand in the moonlight, the straight line of a nose, the shadow of eyelashes on a cheek. The twins move at the same time, in almost the same way, like they know each other's bodies but not their own.

With two concussed men Dean knows he shouldn't move quickly, especially in the dark, so he tries to disguise his unease with question after question.

"Wouldn't be polite to call you Thing One and Thing Two, so I'll just use your first names, okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "That language of yours, Jakub, it isn't any I know. Where you two from?" His accent turns the name into _Jay-kahb_ , something familiar.

"Czechoslovakia." Jakub's voice is a bit higher than Castiel's, but there's the same edge to it. He pauses. "In English you can call me Jimmy."

Czech in a Swiss plane is a discrepancy, yeah, but Dean files it away. More important is getting back to camp alive. "Well. You're the most talkative folks I've ever met," he says, ripping down a low-hanging branch and throwing it off to the side. "I'd hate to see what you're like without the concussion."

Dean stops moving, having reminded himself that he should check on them after half an hour of steady movement, and Castiel nearly bangs into him.

From the grim look on his face it's clear Castiel didn't catch the sarcasm. "Forgive me. We have not exactly met in the best of circumstances," he starts, but is cut short when Jakub trips.

"'m fine," Jakub says, but he's slurring already so Castiel picks him up, swings him into a fireman's carry.

"We need to keep moving," says Castiel and Dean finds himself unable to say no.

\---

That's not how they arrive. Halfway there it's Castiel's turn to collapse, face almost translucent under his thick mess of black hair, the bones of him too abrupt and visible. So Dean pulls Jakub onto his own shoulders, holds a leg with his right arm and grabs Castiel's arm with his left, making sure the pilot stays upright.

He knows he looks like a hero straight out of government propaganda, and if he weren't fucking terrified he'd laugh. Just when it's so dark he needs the flashlight there's no way for anybody to use it, with Jakub only half-conscious and Castiel barely hanging on, in no shape to do anything other than pray. And pray he does, except the Latin is sharp and unfriendly, the sound biting into Dean's attention.

This is how they arrive: stumbling out of the forest into the bright flood of the fireteam's lanterns, feet dragging and breath coming loud and painful. Sam leaps up from in front of the fire and grabs Dean as he falls, holding his brother against his chest as he helps Jakub and Castiel slide to the ground.

There's no crowding around; Bobby gets out his whiskey and takes Chuck's from his lap, handing them to the Nováks and withdrawing with a respectful nod. Sam starts to walk Dean over to the fire, but Dean shakes his head and they sit there on the grass, just outside the ring of light.

Castiel hasn't opened the flask in his hands, frowning when Dean looks questioningly at him. "We are concussed. We should not drink this."

"There's some extra water in the truck," Sam says, as he turns and grabs it from the back seat, barely needing to stand his reach is so long, tossing the canteen over before twisting back around and resting a shoulder against Dean's. "What about you?"

"Fine. Just tired." He raises his hand and Andy gets out of his makeshift bed in the driver's seat, goes around and turns off the lanterns one at a time.

Now the quiet comes in a creeping rush even Sam's warmth can't block out; there's the rustling of the branches, yes, and the whuff of Chuck kicking dirt onto the fire, but there's a deep silence in the shadows, in the chiaroscuro of the moonlight on the high cold lines of Castiel's cheeks.

Jakub's breath is coming soft and shallow, face pained as he tries to sleep with a rattled brain. In the dark Dean can see Castiel bending over him, undoing the buttons of his tunic with this intensity that seems almost familiar somehow—He really needs to sleep, doesn't he.

Dean closes his eyes.

\---

_Dean's back is to the sun, the grinding hum that rises with the light, but he knows the source so he's not afraid, doesn't turn to look. There's grass up to his knees, a field that rolls on for miles. He takes a step and the grass starts growing, he can hear it. He runs. The plane's shadow covers him, goes before him, curves across the green into a pair of great black wings—_

_He looks and there's nothing there, except there is, there's a dead forest, black and hollow, and the brothers standing behind him. With their mouths closed Dean can't tell them apart. But the light changes and it's Jakub who's wearing a green ribbon around his neck and it's Castiel who looks like he wants to take it off, his hands opening and closing in the air above Jakub's shoulders. There's a softness in the pilot's eyes that tells Dean he's dreaming, but it's not over._

_Castiel undoes the ribbon._

_There's a crash and then Dean's somewhere else, deeper in the woods, calling for Sam to come look at this, did you ever see anything like this Sammy, but Sam's walking away with a new patch on his arm, a pair of yellow eyes staring back at him as Sam leaves, yellow yellow yellow in the dark and he wakes up—_

He wakes up. The stars are fading but it's still night, everybody's still asleep. No, Bobby's awake and on lookout, but if he noticed Dean's nightmare he's not letting on. Dean closes his eyes again, breathes.

\---

In the morning they go back, following the path of broken branches until the smell of burnt steel tells them they're close. It's just after sunrise, so it hasn't gotten hot enough yet for the stench of the bodies to start being noticeable.

Because Jakub, still sliding in and out of consciousness, had no choice but to stay at the camp, Sam came along in case there was anything worth salvaging. When they get to the clearing, though, he goes not to the plane but to the trenches, kicking in enough dirt to cover what's there.

Castiel wanders over to watch him but doesn't help, just stands there with his hands behind his back. When it looks like Sam's done, he mumbles a string of words under his breath that Dean doesn't catch.

"What was that?"

"The _Oratio Fatimae_ ," Castiel says as he rejoins Dean, staring at his plane—or what's left of it. Dean's watching for signs of dizziness, but what gets him worried is the coldness in the pilot's eyes. He knows how it looks, what it feels like to try and cover something broken.

"Look, man, the sooner we get whatever we can the sooner we can leave and work on getting you home. And then you can get another one—"

"Another one?" Castiel's laugh is bitter. "Sergeant Winchester, it does not work that way." Before Dean can reply, he pulls himself up into the wreckage.

Sam comes up as Castiel's rummaging around, and frowns when Dean tells him that Castiel's got a bitchy attitude.

"You'll get home, Captain Novák; I promise."

"God, Sammy. You're so sincere I could just puke," Dean says with a grin.

But when Castiel resurfaces with a leather bag, heavily charred but intact, he doesn't give any indication of having heard them. He pulls the strap over his head and climbs back down, bag thumping against his hip, and as soon as his boots touch the ground he heads for the woods.

"Whoa, hold up!" But Castiel doesn't stop. Sam nods, indicates that he'll stay and look for things to save, and Dean runs.

He catches Castiel, grabs him by the shoulder with enough force to spin. Before Dean can open his mouth, however, Castiel's in his face.

"Are you done? It is clear your supplies are low and we are in dangerous country. We must move or die; this is not the time for—"

"What's in the bag?"

Castiel matches Dean's hard tone, does it better. "My brother's belongings. Nothing of import to you, so I ask again: Are you done?"

Dean holds Castiel's stare, then gestures for him to go on ahead.

They stay about a yard apart. As Castiel walks through the trees, the daylight slipping patchwork across his monochrome uniform, Dean watches his hands. They look soft but there's a strength in the curl of his fingers that suggests he carried a weapon long before the war, and there's a wrongness in the way he moves that suggests he doesn't care what happens, isn't quite worth trusting. But they're stuck together for the time being, so may as well work with what you've got, Dean figures as he calls ahead again.

"Move or die, huh? We have next to no gas until our supplier finds us again. Are you saying we should just—"

"Yes."

Dean scowls. "Do you even know where we are?"

"France," comes the answer, bowed taut by the weight of sarcasm restrained. Then Castiel stops, half in and half out of the shadows and Dean can't avoid looking at the push of his shoulder blades through his tunic, sharp and ready for some kind of flight. "I propose," he says slowly, "that you act more like your namesake."

"What?"

"Your namesake. The gun." Castiel still hasn't turned around, and Dean is this close to telling him to go fuck himself when he starts moving once more, leaving Dean standing there.

"That's it? What, you a fan of mystery, always have to get the last word?"

Castiel doesn't look back.

\---

Jakub's up, on his feet with eyes open, leaning against the truck with Chuck and Andy on either side of him. From the sound of it he's telling them about a girl, a childhood sweetheart left behind, the usual.

"Privates." They straighten up as Dean approaches. "How is he?"

"Better, thank you, sir." Jakub's voice is a touch reedy, but otherwise normal. His eyes flick to behind Dean. "Is that—"

Castiel holds out the bag.

Jakub undoes the metal latches, flips the top open and slips his hand inside. After a short while he comes up with a small photo, shades of grey to match his uniform.

"This is Amelia and Claire."

Andy holds the photo with his fingertips, not wanting to get it dirty. She's this side of homely, with long blonde hair and a slightly upturned nose, but there's a brightness to her eyes that leaves no doubt of the origin of their love, and the child she holds is looking away at something with a faint smile.

"That's Claire? She's angelic," says Chuck, and Jakub's proud grin goes lopsided.

Sam's still gone so Dean goes to confer with Bobby, leaving Castiel there as Chuck and Andy resume quizzing Jakub—"You met her at school?"

"No, at Tonbridge there were no girls. She lived in the town."

"Did you two go to school together?" Andy asks, looking back and forth between the brothers.

Instead of answering, Castiel reaches out, pulls the photo away from Andy's fingers and hands it back to Jakub. There's the feeling that they are intruding on something unspoken, so Andy and Chuck turn away and make a show out of checking on their supplies. Jakub pushes himself up and off the truck, rocking slightly as he finds his balance. He doesn't need the supporting hand that Castiel offers too late; the weight of the bag pulls him back down, steadies him.

"Corporal Winchester has promised that that we will return home." The Czech, low and choppy, is a small comfort coming from Castiel's expressionless face, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

"And by that he means Switzerland?" Jakub rolls his shoulders. "You know as well as I do that's not our home."

"It is mine."

The look Jakub gives Castiel is not a kind one, and as he turns his head away there's a resigned set to his jaw. Any chance Castiel had to reply, however, is lost when Dean comes over and closes the gap between them.

"You wanted to get moving? My brother'll be back soon with supplies." Dean smiles, like he's trying to be reassuring, but the angry unease in his voice ruins the effect.

"Where will we go? The enemy is all around," Jakub says, turning back to English as he faces them. "The only good way is up."

Dean glances at Castiel, but the pilot's face is as impassive as ever. "Yeah, well. I know somebody who says that heading east is all right for now—"

"Just somebody? Dean, how disappointing. And after I've given you so much, too."

Sam and Crowley are standing together at the camp's edge, carrying another gas canister between them. Next to Crowley's pressed black uniform and clean face it's clear how filthy Sam is with his grime-streaked face and matted hair, and suddenly Dean feels the dirt on his own skin, feels how unclean he is. The Nováks aren't much better, but he's the leader here and if appearances don't still count for something then that doesn't leave him with much else. But right now what matters is that Jakub's got his pistol out and pointed at the German, so Dean reaches out and pulls it down.

"No. This is Crowley. He—"

"That is not a German name." Castiel's staring at him, eyes narrowed.

Crowley returns the stare and adds a smirk to it. "I've got lots of names."

Sam sets down the canister, crosses to where Dean is. Dean shoots him a look that's equal parts relieved and annoyed; Sam should have waited for permission before going off alone with a spy like that, Dean thinks, except that's too close to admitting to being suspicious of his brother so he lets the thought go.

"You're early," mutters Dean, and if Crowley hears this he doesn't let on.

"Picked up some strays, have you?" Crowley says this with a hint of a sneer, but Castiel presses his arm against Jakub's chest and changes the tension to something less dangerous. Crowley makes as though to move forward, then stops when Bobby comes up behind him and presses gunmetal into his neck.

"Watch it," says Bobby.

With a scoff, Crowley reaches up and takes hold of the barrel of Bobby's Browning. "You don't have to put on a show for me every time, hon." He waits for Bobby to step away before continuing, keeping his eyes fixed on Dean all the while.

"Look, boys, I can't keep being your deus ex machina. Ever since von Stauffenberg's fuck-ups in July there's been pressure, all right? It's taken a while to trickle down, sure, but it's there now and I'm in the thick of it." There's an edge to Crowley's voice that wasn't there the last time, and Dean almost feels like laughing.

"Perks of being a double agent, huh?" He deliberately doesn't look at Sam.

Crowley rolls his eyes, takes off his peaked cap and dusts it. His movements are as calculated as ever, but when he puts his cap back on it's a few millimeters off center. "You can manage to get to the checkpoints without me holding your hand, yeah?" Dean nods. "Glad to see somebody here thinks so."

Dean glances over at the Nováks to see how they respond, but they still look as tense as he feels and maybe having them around won't be so bad after all.

"That everything?" Dean points at the gas.

"Like I said, pressure." Crowley shrugs. Then suddenly he sticks out his hand at Dean and holds it there, ignoring the chamber clicks all around him. "Can't say when I'll see you again, or if, so it's been nice working with you, et cetera, give me a shake."

The expression on Bobby's face is one of disgust, but Sam gives Dean a look that says it's only polite, come on Dean, and so he takes the German's hand. Chuck and Andy stay alert, but all that happens is Crowley squeezes Dean's hand with unexpected strength then lets go, tips his hat, and walks away whistling.

After a few moments the forest goes quiet again and Sam pulls Jakub aside to look at the other salvage gathered from the wreck—what little of it there is. The others carry the gas to the truck, start filling up the tank and packing for tomorrow's drive while there's still daylight.

Dean pitches in, of course, helping Andy pull a rope tight or tossing a couple of the ration packages to Chuck as the private gets a fire started. But all the while he can feel Castiel watching him, and when he turns around Castiel's face has gone from carefully neutral to calculating, judging. It's an expression Dean knows well, but seeing it on Castiel makes him...uneasy is the only good word for it, he thinks, because there's something far too old in the pilot's eyes.

"I would like to speak with you, Sergeant." Castiel's voice is clear enough over the crackle of the fire, even when pitched low, and Dean ignores the feel of Jakub's eyes on him as he crosses the clearing. Castiel glances over his shoulder before walking them behind the truck, away from the others.

"What is it?"

"Why are you working with him?" Castiel's frowning and doing this thing where he sighs through his nose—some other time and place Dean would maybe find it kind of endearing, like a stray cat. But as it is, well.

"I don't even know you—why should I trust you?"

Castiel pauses, cocks his head. Then, shrugging, he sits down, leaning back against a tree, with a careful acquiescence that leaves Dean frustrated. There's no sign of annoyance or argument that Dean can read; just an unspoken statement of fact, and Castiel won't look at him.

Castiel's watching the sky instead, hands resting loose in his lap. Dean looks up, half expecting to see clouds gathering or something else equally ominous and overwrought, but everything's clear and he's tired of being jerked around.

"You better start pitching in," mutters Dean as he turns, leaves the pilot on the ground. It smells as though Chuck's got the hot meals cooked by now, or warmed up at least, but before Dean can get his share Sam intercepts him.

"Dean, I've been thinking."

"Oh, good."

Sam rolls his eyes. "From what Crowley said, it could be a good idea to have someone checking ahead more often. To make sure we don't run into any more traps or something—"

"Look, I get it, okay? And the answer is no."

"But—"

"No, Sam!" Dean snaps, not caring who hears. "None of us are going off! We're sticking together as much as possible; too many of us have died already, and there's no room for you to be a hero."

Sam's silent for a moment, eyes hard under the shadow of his bangs. Then he scoffs loudly and shakes his head, turning and walking quickly away into the woods without stopping to take the open can Andy's holding out.

Andy shrugs and takes a spoonful for himself instead, ignoring Chuck's mildly disapproving snort. Bobby doesn't have anything to say either, just comes up behind Dean and puts a hand on his shoulder.

\---

Castiel hasn't moved from his seat and the Americans are taking care of themselves, so Jakub's the one who gets his food, a tin of German pork for the two of them.

"There really is not much left," Jakub says, settling back against Castiel's tree. The bark is rough even through the wool of his uniform, but this is easy enough to ignore; his years with Castiel have thickened his skin.

"I'm tired of English today."

Jakub raises an eyebrow, but continues in Czech. "The ammo's all gone, exploded, and what else could be burnt has been. The rest is only good for scrap, but apparently Specialist Singer is good with metal, so."

Castiel takes the spoon Jakub holds out, gets some of the meat. "So that's it."

"Guess so. Oh, wait—" Jakub rummages around in his bag, pulls out a narrow and oddly-shaped piece of green metal, its edges melted off. "Thought you might want this."

Giving the tin back to Jakub, Castiel turns the metal around in his hands. On it is a faint white pattern of lines, remnants of his chalk alchemy. Here's a third of salt, there's half of some aqua vitae—but taken apart now it's just a cold mess of wishful thinking, and he sets it aside.

Jakub pauses. "You got my bag."

"It was the only thing in good condition," Castiel says, matter-of-fact, and now his brother's got that look he's seen before, the one where Jakub's wishing he didn't know why they're still together.

"Typical." Jakub scoffs and gets to his feet, taking the food with him. Across the clearing Dean turns away from watching them with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Castiel's not so strange a thing after all.

\---

_Dean's back is to the sun, a vast red light that hangs low through the trees. He's been in this field before, where it is not the grass but the rocks that rise, hitting the horizon higher and higher. There's a singing that comes softly, in a language he doesn't understand but knows well, and as the chorus soars he can't help but join in:_ Polyushko, polye, vidyelo nyealo gorya; Bylo propitano krovyu, proshlogo vryemyeni krovyu—

_It's not the meaning of the words but the intent, and over the months (years) he's become familiar enough with both to close his mouth now, close his mouth and run. But the steppes are long and rolling, quiet stretches of brown and white and nowhere to hide. There's stone all around him, curving around and through his legs until he stumbles, falls—_

_He lands on his feet in a room where the walls are empty. There is one window, high above his head, and whining through it is the wind of the steppes. He's dreaming again, he's sure of it, because this is not the room he remembers._

_A hand reaches into the window, strong and hopeful, and Dean takes it, lets himself be lifted, and then he's back on the farm and still holding Sam's hand._

_Dean lets go but Sam's still smiling as he reaches up, hooks his fingers into the black ribbon around his neck and it's too late for Dean to say—_

He wakes up to Sam shaking him and whispering his name.

"You're back," Dean says, his voice still thick with sleep.

Sam just looks at him, lets the warmth of his hand on Dean's shoulder be his answer.

\---

There's no lingering in the morning. Dean's beginning to find the mountains surrounding their range oppressive, and the woods too anonymous. But they're moving east, towards Germany, and if anybody thinks their path is going to get easier rather than harder they're wise enough to keep it to themselves.

So Sam takes it on himself to clear the way, getting the shovel out of the back of the truck and uprooting the trees that block their way; they're young and thin, most of them, and it doesn't take long for them to fall.

Then the team piles into the truck and Andy takes the wheel, as per, only now with the Nováks along the bench seats no longer seem as roomy. The ride is a hushed one, missing most of the chatter and shouts that come with the jostling, because nobody is sure what's right to talk about in front of these strangers in the blue and the gray. After a few long miles, though, Chuck sits forward and clears his throat.

"How long have you been a pilot?"

The conversation-starter sounds as awkward as it feels, but the Americans visibly loosen as Castiel accepts the opening.

"Many years."

"When did you start?" Chuck presses.

And with that Castiel shuts down again, just staring, silent, until a flustered sort of desperation trickles into Chuck's expression. The line of the pilot's mouth is impatient and almost dismissive, to be sure, but there's something else there that Dean can almost read and resolves to explore. But before he can make that push, Chuck turns to his right and tries once more.

"Um, Jimmy, right?" Jakub nods, and Chuck goes on. "You've been with him the whole time, right? What's it like? See, I've kept my feet on the ground—"

Jakub's voice is quiet and harsh. "No, I haven't."

Chuck doesn't try again after that. Jakub, with his back against the wall of the truck, lets himself be rocked by the rough terrain but the curve of his shoulders sets him apart from the other passengers and from his brother, who sits with square shoulders and touches as little of his surroundings as possible.

Next to Jakub and tucked into a corner, Bobby pulls out a small, worn book from his pack when it's clear that the conversation has died for good. He starts at the beginning instead of the dog-eared page near the end because that mark's from him and Dean reading it together, and right now Dean's busy.

Oh sure, his hands are in his lap and his attention on the wordless Castiel, but as a Sergeant and leader of this increasingly motley team Dean Winchester must always be on the alert, poised and focused. And right now he's focusing on picking up details about the Czech guy next to him that could be used offensively or defensively, such as the way Castiel's somewhat wiry frame still carries a suggestion of strength in its stiffness, and he'd like to see that strength—it's always the quiet ones, goes the cliché. If he could just find a release for the anger he knows Castiel must carry somewhere—not the frustration or contempt he's seen so far, but skin-pulling, bone-cracking _fury_ —if he could just pull that out, Dean thinks, he'd be unlocking something worth having.

Castiel turns his head and looks Dean in the eyes. "What is it, Sergeant?"

Maybe that track of thought had gotten away from him, and maybe it hadn't started so well either, but Dean doesn't let himself look away. See, that could imply that he's intimidated or some bullshit and so Dean holds the gaze, stops looking sideways and turns his face to Castiel.

"I was just curious. You're a pretty unusual guy, you know."

Castiel raises an eyebrow but doesn't interrupt.

"What were you doing in that plane?"

"Flying it."

Sam, sitting on the other side of Dean, lets out a snort that he doesn't bother trying to stifle. When Dean gives him the dirty side-eye, Sam just chuckles and goes back to reading a letter; the paper looks new but it's been folded many times already, and Sam's unwashed fingerprints border the small black words that he mouths to himself.

It's not one of the patterns that Dean remembers, though, and his skin goes tight. But just as he's about to ask when Sam got a new letter from Jess— _how is she, where did you get that, does she still love you even though you're_ —there's a shout and the truck jerks to a stop, throwing them all together as the wheels skid over dead leaves.

"What's going on?" Dean calls out, untangling himself from the others.

"There's a guy in the road," responds Andy's voice, sounding halfway between baffled and upset. "Just lying there!"

"Dead?" Sam's half out the back already, one hand on the roof tarp to steady himself.

"No, I don't—it looks like he's breathing."

At that Sam lopes out of sight, gone before Dean can assign somebody else to go. Dean has long allowed the team more leeway than under normal circumstances, but it's Sam's unspoken defiance that bothers him. At least that's one thing that hasn't changed since they left home, he thinks.

"Jimmy, want to make yourself useful?" Dean hooks a thumb in the direction Sam went. "Back him up."

Jakub shoots a look at Castiel, too quick for Dean to catch, then scrambles out. He moves like he's more comfortable on the ground, without the full sharpness of a soldier.

"Wait for the signal, Private."

"Yes sir," Andy calls back, leaving the engine running.

Chuck's frowning anxiously at Dean, mouthing something about wasting gas, but if Dean learned only one thing from his father it was to save as many people as he could. Failing that, you saved yourself. Never mind the object lesson.

\---

Sam approaches the man slowly. The grey-green uniform marks him as Italian and the cut suggests paratrooper, yet even though he's sprawled on the ground as though he was dropped from a great height he's still breathing. His eyes are closed despite the sun breaking through the trees and onto his face, which seems a touch too thin beneath its rounded features.

At the sound of footsteps Sam looks over his shoulder to see Jakub coming up behind him, and with this reinforcement in place he prods the stranger's shoulder with the barrel of his rifle.

The man shifts, brings his hands up to his eyes, and rolls over onto his side, away from Sam. Sam and Jakub glance at each other, vaguely amused, and Sam reaches out with his foot instead to tap the man in the ribs.

"Hey. I'm sorry, man, but you gotta get up."

The man rolls back over and looks up, and Sam's struck by how pale his eyes are in the sunlight, an odd green-gold overshadowed by his coppery hair.

"Do you speak English?"

The man nods.

"What's your name?"

He sits up, winces and points to his mouth. Sam hands over his canteen, and after a couple of swallows the man exhales and gives it back with a smile that seems a touch too easy to be real.

"Gabriele. They call me Gabriele."

\---

It takes some teamwork to get Gabriele into the truck, as when he tries to stand he stumbles and grabs at his head. When Dean holds out a hand to help pull him in, he pauses.

"Some leverage?"

Jakub's already reclaimed his seat, so it's Sam who pushes Gabriele up, hands linked under buttocks for the most efficient approach. Dean introduces himself as the commander and Sam's brother, and Gabriele's wink is not quite friendly. As the truck starts moving again, everybody settles back down—save for Gabriele, who doesn't take the spot next to Sam but stands over it, supporting himself with a hand wrapped around one of the truck roof's ribs.

Turns out his full name is Gabriele Araldo and all he's got with him is a bag of black market wine. "Only the best from home," he says. The only weapon on him is the dagger of the _Paracadutisti_ , simple, sharp, and tucked carelessly into his belt. Sidearms, stick grenades—Gabriele waves his hands. Unwieldy things, lost along the coastline of Anzio after landing far from his regiment. So what could he do when the fighting started?

"But the armistice," Sam says. "That was a year ago; I thought you guys were wearing Kraut uniforms now?"

"And you're a long way from your drop zone," says Castiel.

The pilot's voice prompts Gabriele to swing himself around. He doesn't turn away when Dean starts talking, but keeps his eyes on Castiel like he's waiting for something.

"Anzio." Dean looks at Sam, then at Gabriele's back. "That's a while ago now. Those must be some rations you Italians have."

"You're not the first Americans to pick me up."

Dean can't help the jolt of hope that comes at this promise of no longer being separated from his army; it's been a long time since home seemed not so far out of reach. But Gabriele's focused on the Nováks, watching both of them and uninterested in much else.

Dean kicks out, taps Gabriele's leg. "Hey. What happened to them?"

"Dead. _Non importa_." The casual remark is just this side of cruel, and the dash of insouciance doesn't help Dean any. "You have chocolate? Doubt it is as good as the British, with their sugar coating, or the French, of course, but sweet is sweet and—"

"We're out of ours," Dean says shortly. "You're a deserter." It's a statement, not a question, and Gabriele's act of garrulousness is put away, replaced by a look that goes right past scrutiny and lands on testing.

"What about you?" And in the silence Gabriele smiles, teeth sharp.

Chuck coughs with the grace of somebody trying to be subtle and starts to say something about how the Italian's English is really good, as though the idea of foreigners speaking his language is something he's only read about and it still surprises him, this common reality. But Gabriele ignores him, leans in close to Jakub.

"Jimmy, remember?"

Jakub leans away. "What?" He's scanning his memories, it shows on his face, but nothing's coming up yet.

Gabriele pouts, then puts on a loud and affected tone. " _Ehi, ragazzo! Lui é un vero figone, no?_ "

Jakub's eyes widen just a touch, and there's that predatory grin again. " _Sì_ , Tonbridge," Gabriele declares, like a flag being planted, and behind him Castiel's frown deepens.

Dean glances from face to face, not understanding, and Bobby sighs.

"They went to the same boarding school."

Sam sighs dramatically and lets his head fall back. "You're fucking kidding me."

\---

Before long they stop again, gas low and daylight fading. It's been another day with not much else to show for it besides another stranger added to their load, and Dean's pissed. He checks the map—it's hard to tell at this scale but it looks like they've done a pretty good job of sticking to the corridor Crowley pointed out, so he sends Chuck and Andy out to check the woods before they set up camp for the night. He doesn't send Sam, despite all the training for recon—or because of it, neither of them says—and the two brothers do such a good job of matching each other's foul moods that nobody feels like talking.

Then Andy and Chuck are back, cheerful and with nothing on their shoulders except their rifles, and the fire they start for dinner fades the tensions. Fades them, that is, until Gabriele reaches for his share of the food and reminds everybody that he doesn't have his own.

"But I do have this wine, a very good year," he says, holding out one of the bottles from his bag to Sam, who lets Gabriele press it into his hand but doesn't open it.

The Nováks, too, have been eating the Americans' German food, and Dean catches Bobby watching them with an expression made hard to read by the combination of beard and cap. But Castiel doesn't eat much. He's busy listening to Gabriele's tales of what life was like after Tonbridge, moving back to _belle d'Italia_ and the women there. Lots and lots of women.

Castiel doesn't even try to keep the boredom off his face.

Soon it's dark enough that the fire makes them a target, visible from the cloudless sky, and Dean is the first to stand, packing up his meal kit and the wine Sam handed off to him. The others do the same, and once his team's started on cleaning up Dean catches Castiel's attention and motions away from the camp, starts walking. After a beat, Castiel follows.

\---

With Dean gone, Sam moves more freely. That's not to say he's not concerned about his brother, no, but that there is a space between them too often filled with the wrong thing, filled with a love too great and unspeakable it could make them lose themselves. And so now, while he knows he has the chance, Sam takes a breath and it sounds like he's drowning.

He's leaning against the truck, away from the ashes and the light, and reading the letters he carries with him when Gabriele comes up. Andy's reading one of his dense and impenetrable books to Chuck, Bobby's got first watch again, and Jakub's got a book of his own out of his bag.

"What else does he have in there, I wonder?" Gabriele says this softly, and Sam feels his breath on his cheek and moves away. Gabriele smiles, thin-lipped, as he drops back down off his tiptoes. When Sam shrugs in response, going back to his own reading, Gabriele leans in.

Sam folds up the letter he's holding ( _Your friends are such gentlemen, Tyson Brady most of all_ ) and shoves it back into a pocket.

"She seems sweet," says Gabriele, sounding sincere enough, and Sam lets himself soften. Just a bit.

"Yeah, she is. We were going to go to Stanford together, get a little place in Palo Alto. We're engaged, good as married," Sam says. There's no ring on his hand and Gabriele doesn't ask.

"You get that letter from Crowley?"

There's no trace of judgment, not the way Dean would have said it, just curiosity. Sam looks at him, trying to see if there's something else there, but Gabriele's face is like a mask.

"All right. Sure. Yeah, I got it from Crowley. He's got connections, delivers mail faster than anybody." Sam pauses, looks at him again. "How do you know about him?"

Gabriele tuts. "We are talking about Crowley, no? How could I not? Besides," and here he affects another pose, hands on hips and lisping German accent, "Italy and Germany are _das allianz, ja_?"

"Which means I shouldn't even be talking to you," Sam says, but he's laughing despite himself. Gabriele shrugs, giving him a toothy smile.

Then, Gabriele lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard that he's actually Scottish and his real name is Fergus."

Sam snorts. "Now I know you're just fucking with me."

Rocking back on his heels, Gabriele gives him a smug look.

"You still haven't told me how you know him, Araldo."

The Italian winces at the mangled pronunciation. "Please, call me Gabriele."

"Oh, right. Like the archangel, huh?"

A smirk flits across his face. " _Sì_. The messenger." Sam nods and leans back against the truck, gestures for Gabriele to go on. "Crowley, ah, he's everywhere. Never satisfied, always thinks he can do better than the ones in charge. What will happen when he is the one in charge—" He shrugs again. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that even God doesn't know what his end game is."

Sam watches him, waiting for him to go on, but Gabriele's looking off into the woods, to the north. Above them is a burst of light, a flare that whites out the night and makes the shadows long.

\---

"German flare."

Dean glances over at Castiel. "How do you know?"

"Many times they would come near my plane." Castiel sits back against the fallen log, the earth rubbing off on him.

They're not far from the camp—Dean can see Sam, or the shape of him, and the way the lanterns go out—but it's quiet here, the branches and the leaves hanging heavy around them, and Dean sits down as well, holding out the still-unopened bottle of wine.

"All right. Talk."

Castiel looks sidelong at Dean, profile just visible in the light reflected by the glass. "What do you mean?"

"There's too much you're not telling me." Dean's got his pocketknife out and is easing the cork out, blade flashing quick quick dark, and doesn't look up. "Dangerous for the mission."

"The mission for Switzerland, or the mission for Crowley?" Castiel's voice is neutral but there's a certain tension in his posture that Dean can see now, realizing it's probably been there all along.

"The mission of keeping alive." Dean knows that this isn't an answer, not really, but Castiel doesn't seem to mind. In fact, there's something approaching respect in the gaze that he turns on Dean, or at least a changed opinion. He takes the bottle Dean holds out but doesn't drink.

"What is there to say?"

"Jesus Christ." Dean laughs. "How about you start with why the hell we're going to Switzerland and not Czechoslovakia?"

Castiel looks down, turning the bottle around in his hands and listening to the wine slosh around inside. Through the glass and alcohol his fingers are stained a deep bruised purple, as though with the ink of manuscripts unrestored, as though he were not here so far away from the old stone of Graubünden, of home.

"My family," he pauses, looks at Dean and takes a drink. "My family were, ah, _spolupracovníky_. In 1938, when the NSDAP came, my family worked with them."

"Collaborators." Dean spits out the word, but Castiel considers this then shakes his head.

"They thought it was foretold. That it was necessary."

"And you didn't?"

Castiel tips his head back. "There were others first. The disagreements became violent." When he doesn't elaborate, Dean reaches out for the bottle and takes a few long swallows. It's not a good wine.

"So you ran away. Good for you."

Castiel's eyes flash, quick quick dark, and it feels like there's a hand around Dean's throat. There was the anger almost unlocked, a hint of the lake at the center of him, and this is Dean's chance to turn back.

Then: "I rebelled," Castiel says, and takes Dean down with him.

They don't say anything for a long while, just pass the bottle back and forth until it's almost empty and it's hard to see each other.

"Hey, your English." Dean's slurring a bit now, but not enough that he cares. "How come it's real good sometimes and other times it's like you aren't real sure?"

He feels rather than sees Castiel's smile—it's more a relaxing of the shoulders, but for the pilot that counts, especially now in the dark.

"There was the boarding school—"

"Right, yeah, which explains the good part."

"And then I moved to Switzerland, to Graubünden, where the university required no English."

"Huh." Dean lapses into silence again, cradling the bottle in his lap.

Castiel's watching him now, despite the absence of light, like it doesn't matter that he can't see the man's face, like that's not what he's looking for. The campsite is dark now, no sign of activity, and the path the moon's tracked suggests it's long past time to head back. He lifts the bottle from between Dean's legs, the glass already warm against his fingers.

"A suicide mission," Castiel says, addressing the bottle. Dean knows the pilot's talking to him.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Dean tries for casual, dismissive, but winds up with Castiel turning those big sad blue eyes on him in the fucking moonlight and this is bullshit. He gets up and starts walking back to camp, feeling his way over the roots, and he can't hear anything but he knows that if he turns back Castiel will be there.

\---

The dawn comes slow, its orange-streaked clouds mixed with the sound of mortar strikes. They're close. Too close, Dean decides, and orders the men to dig foxholes. But there's only the one shovel (the others were lost along the way in another strike like this, closer to the shore) so it's a nervous process, taking turns standing around and watching the sky and forest as one person digs down.

Andy, finished with a fourth pit, stands up, wipes his forehead, and—

The trees explode. The bark shatters, pulp flying outwards, whole branches are sheared away, are sent crashing over as Chuck rolls in alongside Andy and the rest scramble, drop to their stomachs and crawl. The mortars are constant now, singing down—

Dean's looking around to make sure everybody's safe, then the truck goes up and Sam grabs his ankle and pulls—

Parts of the truck come back down, and the shelling stops.

The men wait. Then, as the silence rings, they get up, dust themselves off, and here come the infantry guns—

Jakub's shouting, trying to understand, as Chuck drops, curls over—

"The flare," Sam shouts back, thumbing off his safety and firing, firing—

Dean should have made everybody move, but this isn't the time and he has to shoot, convince himself that these are monsters and not humans he's killing—

Bobby's yelling down into the foxhole Gabriele's rolled back into, but then he's hit, knocked back at the shoulder, and swings his attention back to what's in front of him, in front of his friends—

Castiel picks up Andy's rifle ( _when did he drop it?_ ) and twists on the bayonet, charges, the blade flashing in the sun and oh, it's a sight to behold. The German soldiers fall back before this, yes, force of nature, all whirlwind and wrath, and Dean—

Castiel barks out, "Behind you, Sergeant!" and Dean turns, dives as Castiel lunges and sinks the bayonet deep into another man's chest.

For a moment this is Dean's world: Castiel's harsh breathing and the blood on his face. Then Castiel yanks the blade out—there's the rough choking gasp that comes from dying without a plan—and he wipes it off on his legs, red stripes on the grey like St George's cross decayed. He holds out a hand and Dean, well, he takes it, lets himself be lifted up.

The campsite, a battlefield now, is quiet again. Then Bobby says something about Chuck and Andy—"Shurley and Gallagher," he still calls them—and the men, they don't have to look. The messiness of absence is written into them, they can recite it from memory, and sometimes it's easier to just leave it alone. But Dean goes anyway, he goes over to where they fell, not far from each other the way they always were—still are, really, and Dean wishes he still had it in him to avoid looking at what's left of their faces—and picks up Chuck's rifle.

"Here you go," he says, tossing it at Gabriele. There's something else he could say, something impressive and authoritative about family and blood and all that, but he's tired and the look on Gabriele's face shows he doesn't have to be told so Dean just walks away.

Castiel kneels alongside the bodies, murmurs something Latin that sounds like the last rites, then spreads his hands and descends. Dean freezes.

"Stop that."

"The things they carried—"

"Not yet." He knows it's necessary but that never means he has to like it. And the sprawl of the bodies still feels too human, like a violation.

Something in Dean's expression makes Castiel stand up, back straight, but if there's any emotion showing on his face it's curiosity.

"Sergeant—"

"Dean. Call me Dean." It's an impulse, one that surprises him, but Castiel doesn't seem to notice or be taken aback. "I mean, you saved my life," tries Dean, gesturing vaguely in his attempt to explain. He's not feeling any less angry, but the fact of their bond ( _or whatever the fuck it is_ ) isn't going away either, even if right now the sight of Castiel's angular and unsettlingly placid mouth sets his temples throbbing, the headache making him turn away again. It's like the guy isn't even human.

"Twice," Castiel says. "Dean." The feel of his name in the pilot's mouth is a weighty one, and it sounds like a threat.

\---

The bullet in Bobby's shoulder grates against the bone, staining his tunic with blood and flesh. Standard procedure would be to just press on, maybe dig it out with whiskey-washed fingers first, but Jakub's got the remains of a basic kit in his bag and hands it over. It's just bandages, a needle and some cotton thread, but even these are riches enough. There's a syrette of morphine as well, but Dean lets him keep it for worse times, makes Gabriele hand over another bottle of wine instead.

Andy was the one who usually did the patching up, him and Sam if the patient was wild, but his small hands lie broken on the ground now so it's Sam who sits Bobby down against the remains of the truck, peels off the torn tunic and pours on the alcohol. Bobby hisses, grimaces, but knows that Sam's being gentle, doing what he's been trained to do and with love besides.

With the truck gone, the checkpoints, already farther than they should have been, seem almost unreachable. Dean unfolds the map but doesn't look at it, holding it loose in one hand as he sits and watches his brother. Sam's long since grown into himself, gangly limbs and unkempt hair aside, and his freedom hangs heavy on Dean.

Dean isn't given time to grow moody, though, as Gabriele comes along and stands over him.

"What now?"

"We walk."

" _Splendido._ " Gabriele rocks on his heels. "That sounds like a well-thought-out strategy."

Dean tries to compose a decent reply, but gives up. "Yeah, well, you've been a lot of help, fucking hiding—Jesus, that was worse than your picking the wrong side," he says, with more than anger in his voice. Gabriele's hands clench white by his sides, and his lips tighten with the feeling of being trapped. But he isn't really, only where it counts and nobody else's allowed to pry it all open, so he walks away without saying anything else.

Sam's wrapping up, Dean can see, and Jakub's put what he can back in his bag. So now he looks at the map, despite knowing that the truth is it's a useless thing these days, and ignores the shadow that falls over him until Castiel speaks.

"Hello, Dean."

"Can't a guy get some peace and quiet around here?"

Castiel ignores the outburst and sits down next to him, leaning in to look at the map. He takes it, pulling gently at the edges until Dean acquiesces and lets go. He traces a line along the borders of France, fingertip dragging across the worn paper with the ease of somebody who believes he knows what he's doing.

"Here. This mountain range, Jura—" Castiel underlines the word. "From here I can cross over."

"Too fucking far," says Dean without even looking. Castiel huffs, but there's a touch of amusement in the sound that makes Dean roll his neck and sit up straight.

"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith." Castiel says this like he's found the answer, the Answer with a capital A, and is looking at him with this expression that—it isn't new, but it feels new, and Dean can't figure out how to read it just yet.

"Then you get us there, okay? I've got too much shit to deal with," Dean says, waving his hand at the remnants of his team, with an eye on Gabriele. Goddamn wildcard.

So. The sun's gone past noon, the heat has reached its height, and the bodies around them have been there long enough. Dean stands, orders everybody to move out, and the long walk starts.

\---

There's not much water, very little food, and they can't keep going anymore but they don't stop, there's too many miles ahead of them. Gabriele's in the lead by unspoken agreement ( _for the next attack, he can be the first to go_ ) and he's stripped off his tunic, has it slung over his shoulder and the others have followed suit. The Americans have got undershirts but Castiel and Jakub wear only suspenders, their wool tunics tucked into the back of their trousers.

Dean can see the differences between them in the light that filters down through the ever-denser trees, in the scars that punctuate Jakub's body and not Castiel's—there's a story there, he knows, but Jakub's busy talking with Gabriele and Castiel's just not talking. So, Dean tries to read it for himself:

On Jakub's legs and arms are what look like the hard marks of childhood; faint em dashes on forearms that didn't climb a tree very well, perhaps, and a white burst that sits low on a hip from the fall. And spread across his shoulder blades is a web of old scars, nearly invisible until the sun hits it, that makes the line of his back look almost unreal in the light, like something opened up one time too many.

But the skin moving over muscle and bone, the wiry hips swinging, the color of the sun on the nape of his neck when he turns his head—these are the same from body to body, which means it's something less tangible, something almost otherworldly and maybe a little frightening, that drags Dean's attention back to Castiel again and again.

Soon, though, he's gone back to worrying over getting to Germany, getting in, finishing the mission his father died for, and whether doing that will really end anything ( _will it save Sam, does he need to be saved_ ) and just puts one foot in front of the other.

As they walk, Sam and Bobby not quite managing to fill the gap caused by those left behind, Gabriele talks about how he's always wanted to visit the United States, New Jersey especially because they call it the Garden State, and Jakub's smile starts growing thinner and thinner like he doesn't know what to do with it. Castiel's fallen back so he's walking next to Dean, has been for a while now, but Dean doesn't notice until the man speaks.

"What are you doing here?"

"Fuck if I know," Dean replies automatically, then looks over when he realizes who's next to him. Castiel just looks back, something like amusement hovering on his lips, and Dean shrugs. "It's true."

"Perhaps." Castiel watches his feet, matches Dean's rhythm to his. When he looks back up it's not at Dean but ahead, at his brother or something beyond him, and Dean tries to follow his gaze but sees nothing.

"What, you want a Real Answer?" Dean exaggerates, stressing the capital letters, to signal that this is not where Castiel wants to go. But Castiel nods, of course he does.

Dean doesn't reply right off, just watches Sam walking ahead of him, dirty, shirtless, sunburnt, and alive.

"I promised my dad I'd kill a man."

Castiel doesn't ask, keeps walking alongside with his hands hanging curled like nothing could ever truly concern him, and for this Dean is thankful.

"He had an old buddy—well, it was more of an 'enemy of my enemy' thing, really." Castiel's glance prompts Dean to clarify: "Somebody you can work with well enough but wouldn't invite over for dinner. More for swapping favors, I guess, until one of you betrays the other. At least, that's what this was. You've met him—Crowley." Castiel nods, and Dean goes on. "Then the war started."

"Crowley persuaded your father to join an assassination attempt targeting one of the Führer's inner circle, yes?" Castiel's interruption pulls Dean up short, as does the casual knowledge of a life kept private. The warning shows in Dean's expression, and Castiel shrugs. "Corporal Winchester told me."

There's a part of Dean that's angry, to be sure, and he makes sure to show it with a scoff in case Sam's listening in. But the part that loves Sam—which is the rest of him, everything else in him—that part is proud. "Sammy's got good taste in people, then, even if he is way too trusting," and when Sam yells back "Fuck you" Dean grins.

"And Cas? Call him Sam." The nickname slips out and Dean catches it too late. Castiel doesn't seem to care ( _of course, of goddamn course_ ) but ahead of them Jakub glances back.

\---

Camp that night is deeper in the Vosges with gunfire all around. There isn't much by way of dinner, despite there being two fewer people to feed.

As they're eating, Bobby sits down next to Dean and whispers, "Gabriele's a problem."

Dean just keeps eating, watching the fire. It'll have to go out soon; it's getting dark.

"It's not just that we don't have enough supplies," Bobby continues. "When we find some other troops, do you really think he'll be able to act like a prisoner?"

Bobby's got a point there, Dean figures, even if it's misdirected; the question, it seems, is more whether they won't blow it themselves. Sam's chatting with Gabriele, leaning in and smiling, laughing at almost everything. And, Dean has to admit, he's starting to feel the same way towards Gabriele—when the two of them aren't fighting they've got a pretty similar sense of humor, even if the Italian does go too far sometimes. And Gabriele's traveled all over, which makes for some great tall tales. But he eats, he eats so much it's almost surreal.

Castiel, on the other hand, doesn't even seem to eat. The only way Dean knows this isn't true is from how the guy hasn't keeled over yet, and he doesn't look like he's been losing too much weight. Jakub eats about as much as you'd expect the average guy to, which is to say he eats too much for the current situation. They all do.

Dean thinks of maybe cutting rations down even further, but Sam's in a good mood and Castiel and Jakub are already arguing, low and quiet and impossible to understand, so it becomes another issue for later.

It's time to put out the fire so they stand and kick it out, their canteens clanging against their hips. Their water isn't finished, not yet, but there's maybe one or two more days' worth in each one, they think. Then, as their lanterns are gone, lost with the truck, and the moon isn't bright enough to travel by, they go to sleep on the ground where they are.

\---

_They've reached the valley and Sam's not there. The slow easy rhythm of breathing is the same, but, look—there, just then, didn't you see it? The yellow? Dean grabs him, this person not his brother, and throws him down. You promised, he's saying, but Dean can't go through with it anymore._

He's getting tired of waking up. It's dark, nearly too dark to see his own hands, but he doesn't feel like going back to sleep. Then, a voice close by asks if he would like to have a drink. It's Castiel's voice, he knows this from the rolling syllables, the minor key, and he gets up and follows as well as he can.

Castiel's found a spot where the trees are less crowded and it's easier to see what you're doing, to avoid the empty streambed that would break bones with a wrong step. He's got another bottle of Gabriele's cheap wine and holds it out when Dean steps into the light. They don't have to say anything to each other to know what's needed; this moment is simple enough.

They sit quiet together for a few long moments, passing the bottle back and forth and trying to see into the forest. Then Castiel asks him what it's like, a brother who loves you, and Dean looks at him, tries to see him.

"You left him behind."

Castiel looks away. Close enough, Dean figures. So: "Sam," he says, then falters. How to pull apart their, their whatever it is for a stranger? But Castiel's not really a stranger anymore—or he doesn't feel much like one anymore. So Dean tries and tells him about the runaway week in Arizona, about fear and love all twisted up together, and the whole time Castiel just watches him, eyes dark.

"So, anyway." Dean takes a couple swallows of wine. "That's what it's like, I guess."

Castiel's response is to hold out a hand for the bottle and take a measured swig when Dean gives it to him, neither of them bothering to wipe off the mouth first.

A pause, then: "You know, getting personal stuff out of you is like pulling teeth," Dean says, and there's another of Castiel's rare smiles.

"I could say the same about you, Dean."

Dean lets himself smile back. It's not that bad out here, apart from the sporadic gunfire some miles away. The mountains rising around them makes it hard to tell where a sound starts or ends, so for the moment Dean focuses on the hazy night sky, the constellations a few degrees wrong on this side of the Atlantic, and the wind that comes silent through the trees smelling of mold and smoke. Castiel's face is turned into the wind, the light that comes down from the waning moon hitting almost the right angles to hide his eyes—almost, because Dean can still see a deep dark blue if he looks closely enough. With that and his bare shoulders, suspenders loose at his sides, Castiel could be the cover of one of those _Saturday Evening Posts_ lying around the barracks back home—pinned up on the wall, maybe, but Dean pushes the thought away because Castiel's talking again.

"To what will you go home?"

"Got some acres in Kansas need tending." Dean shrugs. "Hunting. My father was big on that when I was a kid." He smiles at the memory, but there's no heart in it now.

"Sounds peaceful."

"It's not gonna happen."

This shuts Castiel up, but it's not an unhappy silence. Rather, he's gone back to studying Dean like some queer species he'd once thought he understood, and the more Dean sees that particular expression the more it gets on his nerves. He hands over the bottle more reluctantly this time.

"You've earned it," Castiel says after a long while, and it's not clear what he's talking about. Something in his voice, though, makes Dean sure he's still talking about after the war, after the fighting, and it's not naïveté, Dean knows this, but it still feels wrong.

"Nah, I can't picture it," Dean says. "When I go, it's gonna be bloody."

Castiel just takes another drink and gives him that look he still hasn't been able to decipher; that infuriating mix of pity, affection, and something else.

"Wars can end, Dean."

"Not without people dying." Dean takes the bottle back and that's the end of the conversation.

\---

Their water runs out the next day. Gabriele suggests switching to his wine—there's still two bottles left—but is turned down; they need to stay alert, says Dean, and Bobby says it's horse piss anyway. On this note, tempers and temperature both high, they move south into the empty streambed. Though they don't know it, they're near a junction of the war, where France, starting its V into Germany, lies above Switzerland. The heat here is not one of metaphor, unfortunately, but of European autumn, though this stream runs dry not because of drought but because of where a horse and man together fell behind them, pulled down and buried under a log jam of trees laid flat by incendiaries from above. Castiel shows no sign of being affected any more than he already has been, and Dean in a fit of pique decides that it's because the Swiss have got ice instead of blood. Or at least the ones from on high do, but before Dean can congratulate himself on the punny phrase he sees Sam and Gabriele walking together again.

"Hey, Sam, can we talk?"

Sam lifts his head and looks back at Dean, trying to see what the reason could be, but Dean does his best to keep his expression impassive. Gabriele says something, and Sam shrugs down at him and slows down until he's closer to the end of the line, falling in with Dean the way they used to when walking with their father.

"What's up?"

Dean takes a minute before responding, kicking a mossy rock ahead of him for a few paces as Sam walks soft besides him. There's not necessarily anything wrong, he just wants to be sure rather than suspicious—nothing wrong with that, thinks Dean, with needing to be able to trust your brother.

"You seem awfully chummy with that guy."

Sam jerks his head around like he's been slapped, and when Dean replays the sentence in his head he winces too. But it's too late to say anything else, Sam's indignation rolling like a wall across his face.

"Says the guy who's been swanning around with foreign weirdoes of his own."

"First, I have not been _swanning_ ," says Dean, knowing there's no use now but pushing anyway, "and second, they're neutral."

"Supposedly."

They wind up squabbling in this vein for a good while, like they're ten years old again and in the bed of their old Chevy pickup instead of a dried-out stream five thousand miles from home.

Finally, Sam spreads his arms wide, inscribing an arc of exasperation in the air.

"Jesus Christ, Dean, is it so bad to enjoy having somebody easy to talk to?"

Dean's retort disappears back down his throat, and he sees in front of Sam the space where Andy and Chuck would have been like it's new again. That's what it's looked like every time he's looked so far, yes, but its edges are particularly raw this time, the way Dean imagines Sam's voice would look right now if it were brushed onto a piece of paper. He briefly considers trying to patch it over, trying to dismiss the hanging feeling, but the look in Sam's eyes makes him speechless for too long.

"Maybe you should talk to Castiel more," Sam's saying, "if you're not going to get it off your chest with me."

"What?"

Sam's look this time is that one of exquisite frustration Dean's taken to calling the bitchface, but before the observation can be made for what must be the 47th time Sam points ahead of them. "You have to talk to somebody about Russia, Dean. You have to deal with it."

Oh, that. It's Dean's turn to frown. "I was a prisoner of war, Sam, in one of the worst possible places. And before you say 'exactly'—"

"At least about how hard it was getting out. You're acting too, too paranoid for someone who's dealt with it. Humor me, Dean." Sam doesn't look amused.

 _Through the window, a hand, and Dean takes it—there, in the light, didn't his eyes flash yellow?_ "First of all, given the circumstances I think I've got a goddamn right to be paranoid. And second, how do you know it was hard getting out?"

"There, that's exactly what I'm talking about!" Sam puts one hand flat across Dean's shoulders and pushes, sends him stumbling toward Castiel. He waits to see Dean pause by Castiel, open his mouth, and walk past to talk with Bobby. Shrugging to himself, he returns to the front of the line where Gabriele greets him with a wry smile.

"Your brother, he is jealous?"

Sam snorts. "Don't get me started. Dean's insecurity could fill a—" He stops himself, glances back. Next to Bobby, Dean still looks young, yes, but the war is starting to show. "Never mind."

They walk on for a bit, leading the others, and the sun's moved a few degrees before Gabriele turns to Sam again.

"So, when we stop, how about it?" The question is casually abrupt, so it takes Sam a few minutes to readjust, understand the slight parting of Gabriele's lips.

His own expression twists on instinct, and that must be answer enough because Gabriele puts up placating hands.

"Hey, hey. Handsome stranger, far from home and lady? The offer was only polite."

"Still." Sam can't quite smooth the ugly curl to his mouth. "I've put up with your flirting for long enough."

Gabriele's laugh is a short harsh bark. "Let us hope you're more friendly with your brother and his flying friend."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh," says Gabriele, green-gold eyes bright and voice brittle. "This is nice. You haven't seen their eyes when they talk to each other?"

Sam stares at him for a moment. "Are you trying to tell me that they're fucking? Because I knew that."

Gabriele gapes at him, sputters, then flings out a rude gesture before storming off.

With conflicting feelings Sam watches him go; he's won this round by making the Italian speechless, yeah, but there's an uneasy feeling coiled in his stomach that sours the whole thing. Gabriele, for all his quick defenses, seems pretty easy to read, and it had been pretty obvious that whatever they had going, it wasn't about attraction. So this, this power play ( _he must have known Sam would say no_ ) only serves to drive home that there'd been something odd about the relationship between Castiel and his brother for a while now, whatever it is, and that Castiel cannot be as simple as Dean seems to think he is. Maybe this is a warning—

"Aw, fuck!" Dean shouts from behind them. "Where'd he go, Sam?"

Castiel veers off from the line. "I will find him," he says, offering nothing further as he trots off in the direction Gabriele went, bayonet bouncing bright against his back.

\---

It doesn't take long for the trees to swallow up the ones left behind, gunfire sounding closer ahead as Castiel moves quickly over fallen branches. Gabriele's left a path that's clear enough to him, little tell-tale signs here and there like the ones left across Tonbridge on the way to a good sulk.

Now, as then, Castiel finds him sitting under a tree and looking up into the branches. It's a sycamore, bark peeling white like bone, and Gabriele doesn't bother smiling when he sees Castiel.

"Like my lilies at the school, hey?"

Castiel doesn't respond, just stays standing a few feet away. Gabriele pats the ground next to him, and when Castiel shows no indication of moving leans back against the trunk and puts his arms behind his head, closes his eyes.

"You aren't supposed to be here."

Gabriele reopens one eye, his _Says who?_ smirk rising with it.

"You were at Tonbridge for the education, to help your brothers with the family business. You didn't want to fight."

"I'm touched, _fratellino_. You remember so much."

"Why are you here?" Castiel stares at him, impassive.

Gabriele sighs. "After _padre_ disappeared, my brothers, they fought, wanted me to help decide who should take over the business."

"And so you left. How have they fared, do you know?"

"Poorly, I expect. Not my family business now, is it?" Gabriele's tone is defiant, but he's not quite making eye contact.

Castiel lets this be his answer, the silence that hangs there under the gunfire, then turns to leave. Gabriele stays there, watching him leave, each step away like a door swinging shut.

By the time he gets back to the others, however, Castiel hears the echo of Gabriele behind him and is not surprised. Dean looks relieved to see him, less so when Gabriele rejoins them, and is quick to motion them onward again.

The group walks more quietly now, mood subdued first by the darkening sky and then by the dead body they pass. It's a man, wearing what looks like a German uniform, but his face and most of his head are gone, along with a good chunk of his shoulders and insignia.

"Must be getting close," Dean says; _to what_ goes unanswered.

After another half mile of tense silence, Gabriele pauses and looks back. "He maybe was in my unit."

"So?" Dean keeps walking.

"So they could be nearby. Let me see if I can talk to them, get us supplies." And with that Gabriele leaves again, back the way they came with dry branches snapping underfoot.

Castiel doesn't want to wait with the others—"He can find us," he says. "We don't have time for this." But Dean makes him stay.

Then, gunfire, loud, cracking clear through the spaces between the trees, and Castiel looks down. Gabriele's not coming back, they all feel it, and there's no choice but to move now in case there's a sweep coming. But soon it's like walking through a cave deep underground; it gets dark and cold that fast the higher up the mountains they go. The forest is quiet again, but it's the quiet of a threat, and they pull their bodies closer together. There's no sleeping that night.

\---

There's mist hanging among the trees when they set off again, the sun risen just high enough to light their way. The terrain's getting rockier, dipping up and down, and Dean's insisting they haven't gotten turned around but there's Gabriele in front of them, lying there like the day they found him. He's got a hole in his chest, great ugly sucker, but otherwise he looks just the same, and Dean—

Dean's angry at himself for feeling more upset about this death than the two that came before. He didn't ask for this sacrifice, but he didn't ask for the others either, and the worst thing, the worst thing is that Castiel doesn't seem to care.

Sam's doing his sad eyes shtick, what else, Jakub's refusal to look has a certain civilian touch to it, and Bobby gave his perfunctory cap-in-hand bowed-head salute, but Castiel isn't doing a thing. _We didn't know him and you went to school together, for God's sake_ , Dean wants to yell. Grab Castiel and shake him, yes, maybe even hit him. Wrestle with him, make him understand. Throw him to the ground, like—

But it's Jakub who approaches Castiel. "Hey, Jimmy," Sam says quietly as the man passes him by, leading heavy with one foot like someone relearning confidence in his body. Castiel, up front now, waits until Jakub comes up alongside him before greeting him in Czech. Jakub stays quiet, watching his pace and trying to keep his own rhythm.

"I thought God was calling me to something important," Jakub says finally. "I was wrong."

Resignation without acceptance is a hard balance to strike, yet Jakub's found his place. Normally Castiel wouldn't respond, wouldn't write back, but his brother's right here looking at him and he can hear Dean's breathing behind him. "It's not my fault you misinterpreted—"

Jakub cuts him off with a shake of the head, a bitter laugh. "Who wrote me the letters, telling me to come, to leave my family? But," he forestalls that sorrowful sigh of Castiel's that grates on him so. "Then you gave me a choice and I chose you." Another of those laughs. "The war started and your promises, my family—how could I live without you?"

"Jimmy," Castiel starts in English, then stops. Really, to this Castiel has nothing to say and doesn't try, leaving Jakub to carry his weight for longer still.

In response Jakub swings out a bit, stays within sight of the team but walks at a distance for a while. Dean lets him do this, noting how Castiel doesn't seem to pay the situation any mind, and makes himself the same old placebo promise to bring it up later when the timing's better. When they make their camp that night Castiel approaches him as usual, like nothing's happened, and Dean lets him lead them up through the descending fog to a rocky place where there's no telling what's in the valley below.

They sit close together on a damp log, Dean's rifle at his feet and Castiel's bayonet sharp across his back. With the year passing deeper into autumn the temperature's starting to drop again, especially at night, so the men have gone back to wearing their full uniforms and Dean finds himself wondering whether Castiel's better like this, whether seeing him stripped down is too close to an animal flayed. But Dean's a bit south of fond of Castiel right now, and plans to push him on the lack of respect thing right this—

But Castiel turns to him, fixes him with that curious look Dean can't decide whether he likes or hates and asks, "Why are you here, Dean?"

"I told you," Dean says, furrowing his brows in a near-perfect illustration of bafflement.

"No." Castiel shakes his head. "Why are you _here_?" The way he says it, the slow burn of each clipped word sinking into the space between them, brings with it the impression of something holy.

Dean pauses, seeing in Castiel's gaze his reflection, then shrugs. "I was in Russia," he says offhandedly, watching for a reaction that doesn't come, "and when I got out wound up part of Operation Dragoon, landed in Draguignan," he mangles the pronunciation, "way south of here, and Sam told you the rest."

Thankfully, Castiel doesn't press the question, instead looking out over the valley as a breeze turns and stretches the fog out beneath them. "From the Latin for dragon," he says, and Dean glances at him.

"Yeah?"

"Draguignan." Castiel's still watching the valley. "In my studies, the name was there. Part of the legend of Saint George. Do you know it?"  
Dean leans back. "Sure, I guess. Guy killed a dragon that was poisoning a village."

"That is the gist, yes. The dragon lived by a great lake," he begins, voice low and clear, and Dean listens to him tell a tale that starts with a man named Perseus and winds back to Babylon and further before returning to the shores of Silene. But Castiel is a terse storyteller, unsurprisingly, and before long he's wrapping up. "The patron saint of soldiers," Castiel says, his tone indicating an end coming. "He would only kill the dragon after the village people converted."

Dean laughs. "Figures."

Castiel smiles faintly, and puts his hands together in his lap. The loose interlocking of fingers reminds Dean of other familiar hands, limp on the ground, and he gets up and walks to the cliff's edge. He stands like this for a while, looking down into the valley, but it's too dark to see anything there now and so he lets his gaze flick across the horizon. Dean feels the pilot waiting, watching the back of his neck, like Castiel's trying to bring him salvation. All this effort, all these long nights, because, what, the guy thinks he can tell with just a look that Dean needs saving? Because that's shit, is what it is. Dean knows how to fucking take care of himself. Really, if he needs anything it's something lower, more tangible. Whether it's something Castiel can give, well. But that's not something you talk about.

After a while the silence feels heavy on his shoulders but he doesn't want to turn around, look at Castiel just yet, so he takes a deep breath and says into the silence, "Tell me some more about dragons, what you studied."

There's a rustling behind him, then Castiel says quietly, "Green does not have a very auspicious history."

Dean remembers Gabriele's green-grey tunic with its rich new stains. "But it's the color of money," Dean says, trying to sound like he's grinning, and lets himself think that Castiel allows a smile in return.

"But here even the money is different, yes? In the," and Castiel breaks off. " _Středověké_. When there were knights?"

"The Dark Ages?"

Castiel nods. "In the Dark Ages, their devils were sometimes green, not red. Their dragons, too, because the color could mean base desires, sin to be destroyed. For instance, one was encouraged to be careful of those with green eyes."

"What kind of studies were these?" Dean's facing him again, has moved to stand right in front of him.

"Theology, folklore. Humanity." Castiel doesn't tip his head back, just raises his eyes to meet Dean's.

"Hey, wait. Green eyes, huh? So I guess that makes me the dragon." Dean's smile is all teeth, and in a happier story this is where Castiel would turn away.

But then Dean drops to one knee and takes Castiel's wrists, gripping hard enough to turn the flesh white. "You know what, forget the dragon," and he stops there, daring Castiel to understand, smirking without any of the heart of it.

Instead Castiel just watches him, like he's waiting for something, and then it comes, it does, the feeling of being confronted with something massive and real and Dean can't hold onto it—he bows his head and he can't help but want to cry, it's silly yet not enough but still, he doesn't know what it is, and it isn't until he hears his voice that he realizes he's said these last few words aloud.

"The kingdom," Castiel is saying, but Dean's not listening anymore, he's gone, walking quickly back down the wooded path.

\---

The next day Dean takes the lead, far in front of everybody else, and hopes that nobody tries to talk to him. There's an anger that hangs about him, closer to fury, sharpened by the roiling emptiness of his stomach. The last of Gabriele's wine was parceled out several hours ago and the sun's reached its height, meaning the men move slowly and from tree to tree, savoring the coolness of each shadow.

There's no knowing how many miles they've covered when Bobby starts lagging behind, stopping once too often with his hands on his knees. There's a dark stain on his shoulder, spreading down across his back, and if the wind were blowing it would carry the smell of infection. He's old for the army, right at the top edge of the draft age, but he's well able to hold his own in situations where lesser men would stumble ( _Castiel takes Jakub's bag from him with a practiced ease and Jakub doesn't even resist, focusing instead on keeping his footing steady_ ) yet this is a situation few can endure.

When Bobby doesn't try to catch up, just sits under a tree and stops moving, Dean turns around as the rest go on as far they can. The man's taken off his cap, thin graying hair lifted from time to time by the faint breeze, and the expression on his face as he watches Dean approach is a tired one, peaceful almost. It makes Dean want to be sick.

"What's up, Singer?"

"What do you think?" Even now Bobby's sardonic tone hasn't left him, but something of this vein of thought must show on Dean's face because Bobby's attitude cools. "Don't look at me like that, kid. I knew what I was signing up for and you sure as hell better have too."

Dean shifts, prompting a scowl from Bobby. "And if you think I'm going to ask you to shoot me, you've been reading too much of that March fellow."

Before Dean can protest that March isn't like that and anyway he prefers Thurber these days, Bobby closes his eyes and lets out a long breath.

"What should I do?" Dean's voice is quiet. Bobby keeps breathing but doesn't respond, and Dean stays by him for a while before walking away.

Sam catches his eye when he rejoins the team, more a motley group now, and Dean doesn't feel much better. They can't keep going like this but they have to, and they've been here before. They're not lost, not this time; there's a new set of mountains rolling up in front of them. Sam's already eager to go run recon despite everything, like their father before them _yellow did you see that his eyes_ and this is what it is, everybody he loves will leave him.

"This is not destiny, Dean," Castiel says suddenly beside him, the words thrown out like gravel, and Dean has had enough. It's not even evening proper yet but he tells Sam and Jakub to make camp right here and he'll be back before long, there's just a little talk he and Cas need to have, and with that he leads Castiel up the mountainside ahead.

As they climb Dean makes the mistake of looking behind him. Castiel doesn't vanish, no, this isn't that kind of story. But his eyes snap to Dean's and that's it, they're stuck where they are in the middle of the forest. There's rocks here and there, some boulders a few paces off, and Dean heads for the largest.

"Where do you think you're going," Castiel says, the command in his question making Dean stop despite himself.

Dean says, "I'm not going to fight about this," his fists clenched, and behind him he can hear the gentle crunch of leaves underfoot. Then Castiel's come round, is watching Dean's face, and when he's close enough ( _too close_ ) lets his eyes open wide.

"You don't think you deserve to—"

"Where do you think you get off with all these judgments of me, huh?" Dean returns the stare, his eyes narrow and the line of his shoulders tight. But Castiel doesn't move away; if anything he leans in ( _it's amazing there's still the space for it_ ) until Dean swears he can feel each steady pulse of Castiel's breath before it starts.

"Your brother, he loves you," and this is Castiel's mistake.

"Yeah, well, he sure knows how to show it—" Dean cuts himself off and turns away.

"Free will, Dean," says Castiel. "It is a, an..." He trails off, English having failed him. But he fixes his eyes on Dean again quickly enough. "You know why Sam is doing these things."

The headshake Dean gives is an abortive one, like a horse pulled up short, because he does and doesn't; the obsession is not the same but the root is there, Dean's sure of it, and he's seen how it can change a man overnight. But it's the slow festering that's the most dangerous, the rationalization that becomes belief, and now Dean recognizes where he is, what this is. He turns back around, midway along the journey of his father's life, and Castiel is there unmoving among the trees.

"So what should I do?" Dean's tone is near defiant but there's acquiescence in his eyes. He's been here before, yes, and as Castiel looks at him there is a thrumming in the air.

"You have a choice. Make it." The words come out rough, a bit sharp, like Castiel's throat is dry but he doesn't want to risk swallowing.

"All right," Dean says, and they're standing there with nothing else to do but put their hands on each other.

Castiel's fingers and lips are cold; Dean thinks it's because of the mountain air carried in the pilot's blood, heavy against his collarbone and pulse. Then he steps away, lets Castiel's hand drop off.

"Free will, Cas," says Dean, shrugging like he's changed his mind, and there, there's the flash in Castiel's eyes that he's been waiting for.

Now he's borne to the ground, palms pressing him down. It's not gentle, and from the way he lands Dean knows he'll have bruises tomorrow. Then come the blows and the air is thrumming again, grinding in Dean's ears like an engine as he tries to rise, to use his own hands, but Castiel holds him down.

"Do not test me," he's saying, but it's too late—Dean's grinning, he's gotten the result he wanted, even when he lands a blow of his own and there's no response.

With the sun behind him Castiel's a series of lines, put together like a black sketch of something only heard described, and for the briefest moment Dean finds himself again with that feeling of looking at something ancient and sublime but the knuckles against his cheekbone and nose are solid, so solid—Dean gasps, spits dark red. It's first blood.

You'd think this is where it would stop but no, Castiel doesn't need to stop and this is love, the thud of skin against skin and bone, this is love. It's not gentle but it's not cruel either, this hand around his throat and the other across his face, and Dean curls into every hit with a hiss that becomes a groan.

In the middle of it there's a moment when the knee on his chest is lifted away and he can breathe with a sudden clarity. He starts to rise, puts his hands on the ground, feels the dirt gritting under his fingernails, but Castiel's hand lands heavy on his hip, almost soft in the way it pushes him back down. And Dean—he'd never admit it, but he lets himself open up to each bruising strike.

Then he's pulled onto his feet; Castiel's got him by the collar of his tunic and is waiting for him to open his eyes. It takes a short while for Dean to focus, to tell what he's supposed to be seeing. By now the sun's been cut by the horizon and their shadows are longer, the forest dimmer, and it's hard to read the expression on Castiel's face.

Dean coughs, spits again. "You know, there's a word for your sort," he says.

"And there's a word for yours," responds Castiel, voice level. He pauses, looks at the man before him. "I didn't need your kind to teach me about choices." His tone borders on wistful, and the way Castiel says _your kind_ makes Dean look away.

\---

They descend the mountain in darkness, night coming fast this late in the year, yet Castiel moves without hesitation over the fallen trees and broken-down boulders. Dean, less sure of his footing, keeps track of the path by watching for the glint of Castiel's bayonet in the moonlight.

Sam's still awake when they find the camp again, and despite his pointed looks there's no attempt to explain the bruises and cuts. But when Dean takes over the watch—"You'll tell me in the morning," Sam says, and since it's not a question Dean doesn't answer.

So, in the morning, when Jakub gets up to relieve himself, Dean sends Castiel off with him on the pretext of protection in these woods where the Germans could be anywhere, and sets about trying to shave without water. It's a raggedy business, one that Sam hasn't really bothered with and Castiel and Jakub only occasionally, and he's just about called it quits for the week when Sam finishes cleaning up the campsite and comes over.

"So what happened?"

The bruises are tender things, Dean found while shaving, and he touches his face without meaning to. "Castiel."

Sam frowns. "Do we need to—"

"No! No." Dean looks at him, wild, and in his eyes Sam sees something—a kingdom, he realizes, like the one he left behind in Palo Alto, and the knowledge that holding it will be a difficult thing. "Germany's off," adds Dean. "We can go home." And with those words Sam knows that their coming fight has gone.

Just to check, though: "We don't need to talk about Russia?"

Dean chuckles, dry. "God no. Do you?"

"Getting you out was hard, sure, but." Sam shrugs, exaggeratedly casual. Dean looks at him, quiet, then grins.

"I knew it was you the whole time, Sammy," he's saying, "Been saying you had it in you the whole time," and Sam lets him say these things because _I know what you are and I am not sorry_ and it is not the world he so loves but Dean; he would give ( _has given_ ) too much to see it go up with his brother still in it.

"Sure, Dean," says Sam, and doesn't ask anything else about Castiel.

Dean smiles at him, real this time, then closes his kit and stands up. "Can't take that long to piss."

Sam sighs.

\---

But he's right; Castiel and Jakub have walked on, again heading up the mountain like it's a rite of passage, though they stop lower down when Jakub turns round suddenly.

"You know what this is about." He starts without preamble, Czech sounding choppier than usual. Castiel watches him pace. "Give me my bag back."

The abruptness of the request is difficult for Castiel to keep up with, his mind visibly trying to piece together the logic behind it, and Jakub scoffs.

"Of course you don't understand. You let me be taken in, left as soon as you could and changed your name, Andel—changed the whole thing. Are you letting me tell them we still share a name because you think it's easier?" His hands slash through the air, his voice rising to a shout. "I can't go home and you don't care because how could you, you're not even—"

"You can go home," Castiel says ( _Milton, not Novák, that was a lie_ ) but Jakub shakes his head.

"It's not going to be the same. Can't you see that?" He looks at his brother, not knowing what he expected to see but being disappointed anyway. "You're going to leave again, aren't you, with Dean. Do you ever think about anybody other than yourself?"

Oh, but you're wrong, Castiel wants to tell him, it is not myself I think of but the world. But their worlds are different things, the gears of one unable to align with the other, and so he sees no use in trying. "Jimmy," Castiel says, letting his voice get soft because he doesn't know how to make it kind.

Jakub looks at him, this man wearing his face, and sees a stranger. "I gave you everything you asked for," he says softly, "I gave you more, and this is the thanks I get?" The anger's still there, yes, but it's winding past the shouting feeling and settling into something closer to a phantom ache: the pain that comes not from missing something but needing it too much.

And like his favorite author Castiel can see the paradise lost, the rise and fall, but he is not sorry. Jakub, sensing this, opens his mouth and finds himself with nothing more to say. So he lets Castiel keep his leather bag with the photographs of his family, the books, the wedding ring, and when Castiel turns to head back Jakub follows him down.

\---

Sam and Dean are ready to go when Castiel and Jakub arrive, throwing them their kits and setting off. It's the same scene as it has been every day before this one; the trees, reaching tall and bony above them, are beginning to lose their leaves, leaving them at that halfway point between bright painted colors and bare branches like fingers burnt and broken. Beneath this patchwork canopy the soldiers, in their olive and their grey, look like game pieces mislaid and with each dragging step they feel it too.

But today they've only walked a few miles before the land starts changing: the forest begins to thin out, the ground beneath their feet goes from packed hard dust to a richer, deeper soil that gives with each step, and because there's no wind they can hear the sound of water.

Water—they break into a run and there it is, there's a river. The _Canal du Rhone au Rhin_ , according to Dean's much-folded map, but that's unimportant information in the face of survival. Sam strips off and jumps in, whooping, and Dean does the same; yeah, it's not exactly covert but they've earned this, they have, and he calls to Castiel with a wave of his hand, grinning at Jakub as well. But the men don't respond because there on the bank of the river, across the water, stands a deer.

"I am going to shoot it," Jakub says, and Castiel lets him take aim. He's earned it, this resumption of their childhood hunts. The deer stills, looks over in their direction, and it's a clear shot yet Jakub doesn't fire. Dean waits in the water, submerged past his mouth, looking up at the creature above him. Then the deer glances away, hearing something in the wind, and breaks into a slow loping run until it disappears once more into the forest.

Jakub re-shoulders his rifle. "Next time," he promises. Castiel stands at the river's edge, unmoving, as Dean climbs out of the river. He's got half a mind to let Jimmy have it, Dean does, because goddamnit it they could have eaten that thing, but one look at the guy's face tells him there's a story there he can't hope to understand.

Sam's gotten out as well, is lying on a patch of grass until he dries off. Dean goes round and gets together their canteens, slips back down into the river, fills them up. He's standing in the water, screwing the top back onto the last one, when he can tell from a slow rippling that starts behind him that Castiel's joined him. The pilot's naked, hands cutting an extra pair of lines into the water, and Dean can't help sneaking glances. But Castiel moves without shame, the sight gradually loses its thrill, and as Dean leaves the water this time a breeze comes through, raising the hairs on his arms and legs and chilling his skin.

Jakub's still on the shore, feet hanging over the edge, when Sam, dry and somewhat cleaner now, walks over. Because his uniform is still filthy (soaking it would only weave the dirt and sweat deeper into the wool) Sam's leaving it off as long as possible, and it's mostly this that makes it difficult for Jakub to meet his eyes.

"Come on, you don't know when your next chance will be," Sam says. Jakub frowns in acknowledgement, watching as Castiel, having gotten his rifle and moved it across, climbs onto the opposite shore. He gets up and mutters agreement, peeling off his uniform and jumping into the water, the ice-coldness of it shocking him into a shout.

Castiel heads off into the woods, feet and body bare, rifle and bayonet weighty in his hands, but the deer's path is hard to find and he stops with the sound of the river still in the air. If he turned around he might be able to see a flash of it here and there, between the trees closing back up behind him, but he stays standing there. Off in the distance the horizon is muddied with a familiar haze: the pollution of Basel, the promise of home away from home. There's no time for memories, however, because ahead of him a crashing noise rattles up, a wild hunt stripped down to its essentials, and Castiel retreats before the patrol comes into view.

The barking of hounds follows him across the water, echoing off the rock around them, and Dean tosses him his uniform as Jakub follows him out of the river. But as suddenly as they began the dogs go silent; Sam and Dean confer in whispers, casting dark glances at the way the forest resumes, grows denser, on the other side.

"They will come at night. We must cross now." Castiel's looking at the same thing they are but again it's like he's seeing something overlaid and they're missing it; he's straining against inaction, Dean can tell now how to see the impatience ( _it's been there all along_ ) and the pilot's only waiting because—

"Dean," Castiel says. He sounds more annoyed than insistent but even so it's like a bell ringing, faraway yet clear. There's no such thing these days as the cruelest month; humans are cruel enough year round, and Dean doesn't move.

He looks at Sam, not Castiel or Jakub, as he says, "We need to look at our options," and there's the feeling, the one he can't describe, breaking down a part too late defined inside him. The weight of Castiel's gaze is unmistakable, and fury he could embrace but that's not what this is, this is too close to pity.

Dean could walk for years carrying this moment folded up tight in his chest and still be unable to forget: Here, the light's low angle across the pilot's neck and jaw. Here, the blue of his eyes crisp and dark. And here, his collar stained with blood.

Their night on the mountain is still soft on Dean's face, and the unspoken words hang heavy in the air like a hand outstretched. Castiel's still waiting for his answer, arms ready, but on his face Dean can see the choice made. Maybe another year, or in another life, this would end differently; Castiel wouldn't turn to go, wouldn't lead Jakub into the river, their grey uniforms bleeding into black.

"Let's finish this, Sam." The air is heavy in his lungs.

 

 

  


**fin.**  



End file.
